love is true weakness
by derekstilinksi
Summary: a mother's love is meant to be the most natural thing in the world to come by. unfortunately, villains always find a way to go against nature.


**first, but definitely not last descendants fic :)

i recently watched the movie and read the book ( which i recommend everyone do tbh ) and i am just obsessed with carlos, honestly my tiny child, and i just had to write a fic on him**

 _Love_.

Love was _weak_.

Love was a true and _vile_ weakness.

Love was wretched, sickening, **unwanted, _unneeded_** to a villain.

Love was something a true villain was not supposed to _crave_ like the sweetest chocolate.

Love, the very _word_ , was supposed to fill a blackened soul with disgust, make the face of evil _cringe_ , induce a wave a _nausea_ in the sickest of villains.

Love was unneeded and unnecessary and, above all, a weakness.

Love was not for a villain.

So then why. Why did Carlos de Vil, son of Cruella de Vil, one of the most truly rotten and evil villains, _want_ it so bad?

Crave it, even?

Why did he feel a pull, somewhere deep down within him, that only really wanted the one thing that was seen as pure weakness?

And what unholy demon made him crave it the most from his mother, the very woman who told him time and time again that he was worthless, useless, _an utter disappointment_ to her.

Why did he feel the smallest pang of hope in his heart when he heard his mother sing, "My baby!" even if he knew he was _not_ her baby? Or at least, not the baby she cared about? He knew well and good that the car that sat most of the time, unmoving, in front of their house, was the baby she cared for and even preferred.

Why, oh why, did he feel chills run up his spine everytime his mother would exclaim, "My one true love!" when he knew for a fact that she was meaning her furs? Her precious, fur coats that she cared more for than for him, that she would probably _die_ for.

Oh, how he _envied_ those coats.

Oh, how he would _absolutely love_ to tear them seam by seam, rip the buttons off each one, slice through the backs and _show_ his mother exactly how it felt each time she would tell him how much of a disappointment he was. How it felt to know that he was not her true love. How it felt to know that he was not even a love. How it felt to know that he was _nothing but a servant_ to her.

Oh, how he wished to scream at her the way she does him when he misses a spot on the floors, when he arrives home later than normal, when there is a single dish left uncleaned. How he wished to scream and scream at the top of his lungs that _he was her son_. Not her toy, not her puppy to play with, not her servant to torture. He was her son.

Her one and only baby boy and she _couldn't care less about him._

A mother's love should not be this hard to come by, not even for a villain. And yet, here he was, grasping desperately at the single pillow he had, the one Evie had given to him in a moment of pity - _thrown away_ he reminded himself harshly, _she did not give this to you, she threw it away and you happened to be her dumpster, because that's all you'll ever be, that's all you'll ever **deserve.**_ He hugged the pillow tightly to his body, inhaling the Evie-esct scent. He found small comfort in his 'big sister's' fruity smell, hoping it would do something to calm the sobs threatening to escape his throat, the tears streaming down his face.

Internally, he screamed and sobbed about how he just wanted his mommy to hold him, to comfort him, to tell him just how much he matters to her. To _love_ him like a mother is supposed to.

Externally, he took gasping breaths, his heart rate sky rocketing as he tried his hardest to remain quiet. The last thing he wanted was to wake mother.

Unless, of course, he could also wake up the maternal side in her that felt the pull to go towards her baby's cries and comfort him after the nightmare that was his life. Tell him everything will be okay and that she loves him.

But she won't do that.

She would never do that.

Because he wasn't her baby, he wasn't her one true love, he was not her son. Not in her fucked up mind, not in his fucked up life.

All he was to her was someone that would help her take care of her roots.

Carlos knew, better than most, that these feelings of want - the pathetic, pitiful, disgusting feelings - were not allowed. Not on the Isle, not in a villain, not in him.

But no matter how hard he shoved them down, deep within him, no matter how many other evil thoughts he tried to cover them up with, the crave for his mother's love would not go away.

And, as much as it pained him, it would never go away.

 **Love truly was a weakness.**


End file.
